


it helps to have an anchor.

by teyaten (cosidrix)



Category: Dangan Ronpa, Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, No Dialogue, Trans Hinata Hajime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9934460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosidrix/pseuds/teyaten
Summary: growing, without words, like the flowers do.(a series of drabbles following the personal growth of komaeda and hinata, post-island.)





	1. ripples in all directions

**Author's Note:**

> all titles are in reference to siken's "landscape with fruit rot and millipede."

Something soft happens. Sometimes, something soft just happens. The earth sighs beneath the weight and shifts.   
Sometimes, something soft just happens, and things shift.   
Hinata Hajime runs his hand through his untameable hair, Nagito Komaeda runs his hand through his own. Moving bodies, magnets to each other.   
Things have shifted.   
No longer on the island, it’s hard to be so hostile all the time. They’ve given up on being at odds with each other. It was the best choice they’d ever made.   
Hinata rests his arms on the window sill, a hardly smoked though nearly burnt down to the filter cigarette hangs at the end of the slope of his hand. He doesn’t need the smoke. But it’s a familiar movement, a familiar scent, a familiar taste on his tongue. One in the morning, one at midday, sometimes after sex, and one at night. He does it for the motion. There are a lot of things they do for the motions now.   
Komaeda twists at the bolts on his metal arm, cross legged on the couch. He fidgets-- always has. He’s skinnier now than he was on the island. The sick dips of his collarbones stick out of his baggy t-shirt like the edge of a blade. The difference between then and now is that Hinata is no longer scared that he’s going to cut himself on them.   
Hinata leans out of the window, feels the wind of the morning shuffle his hair between its fingers. He stubs the cigarette on the exterior wall of the apartment building beside the other small tobacco stains. It’s okay. The rain will soon wash them all away.   
He crosses the living room. Komaeda doesn’t look up, he’s too busy running the tip of his finger over the seams of welded steel. Though, with a silent grace, Hinata takes each of his hands into his own, and settles himself down onto Komaeda’s lap. He looked like he was made to be there.   
Hinata guides Komaeda’s hands to his hips and places them there. There’s no longer a flinch at the cold metal, no longer a wince at his touch. He accepts Komaeda for all that he is.   
Hinata leans forward, presses his chest and lips against Komaeda’s, and he is home.


	2. something dead that doesn't know its dead

Komaeda lunges for something he left behind. Hinata lunges for a gun. Somehow both of these things happened at the same time and hours apart and never at all, though that is the nature of dreams.   
Komaeda grabs his chest as he wakes up. There was rebar between his ribs, then there wasn’t, then it felt like there was. Hinata moves at the speed of light, pulling the blankets off of Komaeda with one hand and cupping the side of his face with the other, muscle memory.   
Nightmares are not foreign to this house.   
Komaeda chokes out a sob, Hinata kisses his forehead.   
Komaeda curls in on himself, curves away from Hinata; Hinata learns how to pull him apart and drag him closer.   
There’s some kind of gross pleasure that Komaeda gets from this, the same brand that he feels when Hinata smiles at him. The guilty kind. The _i’msorryishouldjustbequietandstopbeingabother_ kind that Hinata always counters with a _nagitonagitonagitostopi’mhereyou’reokay_ and it’s always so compelling.   
In time, he’ll learn that it’s okay to be comforted.   
Tonight, maybe not so much. It doesn’t make a difference to Hinata, it’s always okay.   
Hinata holds out his hand, five fingers spread wide, a question. Komaeda gingerly wraps his hand around four of them, and Hinata heaves a wounded sigh, bringing him up to his chest and letting him cry his shirt soaked.   
It was a system they’d created years ago, the silent inquisition of _on a scale of one to five, how bad was it?_  
It was heartbreaking, they’d gone months without a four. They were both patiently waiting for their five, for the night that breaks them in half. Komaeda knew that with Hinata beside him, he would never reach a five. Hinata knew that with Komaeda beside him, he hardly ever reached a two.   
There’s something to be said about the way two spines curve toward each other like closed parenthesis. There’s something to be said about that. There’s something to be said about what sort of love that is.


	3. the mind fights the body and the body fights the land

There was a lot to be hated about this. The familiar sound of waves crashing on a beach had never brought anything but strife to the survivors of the killing game. There was something so sinister about the seaside. But there was something even more sinister about allowing the ocean to be a pillar of fear and distrust. 

So Hinata decided to do something about it. 

Yesterday’s harsh rain and today’s overcast had left the beach devoid of population. Devoid except for, of course, Hinata. 

He sat against a rock with his knees pulled up to his chest, a placid look on his face. His coat wasn’t quite sufficient enough for the wind the sea provided him with, but that was okay. He wasn’t here for warmth, he was here to be strong. There were many things that Hinata couldn’t be strong with-- needles, clothing that was too tight, shoes on tile floors-- but the ocean wasn’t quite as formidable. 

He took a deep breath. The waves rolled along the sand a few meters away. He breathed out. 

Hinata had never been good with standing up to his fears. To his credit, most people weren’t. But as Komaeda took his place beside Hinata, he couldn’t be prouder of the smaller boy.  

Sometimes, Hinata disappeared. And that was okay, because sometimes Komaeda did too. They both tried their best not to worry about the other, knowing that sometimes being gone was easier than being here. They each had their places, Hinata’s was the beach, Komaeda’s was usually in a different city. No matter how far from home they strayed, they always came home at night. 

No words were exchanged as they both stared out at the fishing boats way out in the surf. Something insignificant buzzed past Komaeda’s ear, something insignificant made Hinata’s heart beat faster. The biggest triumph is always realizing that it’s okay to call things insignificant. 

Hinata leaned his head on Komaeda’s shoulder, brushing his cloudy hair away from his face, and as he put his hand over Komaeda’s, something significant made Hinata’s heart slow back down, and he was calm again.


	4. flex your will

This, right here and right now, is when none of it matters. The blood, the shouting, the violence. None of it matters. Not here. 

Hinata and Komaeda collided like two comets set on a course across the galaxy for one another. Its been too long, Hinata thinks in some loosely idle part of his mind as Komaeda gripped his thigh and made him squirm, too damn long.

They’re squared away in some forgotten room on the island, just the two of them, the gravitational pull of two souls destined for intertwined lives simply too much to ignore. The last time either of them did something like this, the situation was much more dire, the chips so much more stacked up against them. It was hurried and messy in Hinata’s cottage, all selfish and indulgent, and then never spoken of again. 

But it wasn’t like that now. 

Hinata laid on his back, staring up with wide eyes at the ceiling high above them, swimming in how good it felt to have someone touch him like this again. Here, he could forget himself, forget the project, the awful things that transpired during the game. Here, he could be wanted... and loved.

Loved.

Loved for everything he was and for everything he wasn’t. His face was flushed under the weight of the thought, and experimentally he looked down at Komaeda, whose tongue teased at him so fondly, and found his hazy eyes staring right back. 

Loved. If it was a question, the answer could be found in such a look. But it wasn’t. Hinata didn’t have to wonder if Komaeda loved him, it was obvious. Komaeda, the only person to ever see him like this, get him this flustered. Komaeda, the only person he felt comfortable being around without his binder on, the only person he would ever allow to touch his chest. Komaeda, who treated his body like the last bit of God’s grace to ever touch the Earth. 

Komaeda, his anchor. 

His tongue brushed against his clit, and Hinata bucked his hips towards his lover’s mouth, all red with use, so inviting. Komaeda gave him the smallest smirk, and allowed his eyes to settle closed as the ran his tongue back over that sensitive spot once more, sending a shiver down Hinata’s spine. 

He tilted his head back, gasping as Komaeda teased at his entrance, knowing exactly how to get him desperate. Komaeda knew him. Whether it was knowing the way he needed to be touched, or fucked, or what words calmed him down-- it didn’t matter. Komaeda knew him like the back of his hand. He liked the way Komaeda knew him, the way it felt to be understood in a world where no one even tried to understand him. He liked the way Komaeda loved him. 

And he liked the way he’d grown to love Komaeda back. 


	5. all these ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter centers around nanami's death. if that is a sensitive subject for you, i advise you not to read this chapter. <3

Though it had been his own doing, Komaeda still flinched with the door slammed shut. Now isolated in the bathroom, he sobbed. His body contorted in on itself as he collapsed to the ground, clamping a cold hand over his mouth. He bit his lip to try to quiet himself, a practiced action from being terrified of death in the hospital as a child. 

He launched himself forward and slammed his fist into the wall. The pain radiated from his knuckle to his wrist and it made him feel alive which was the opposite of what he wanted and what he deserved so he did it again. And again. And again. He did it until a bright pink smear appeared on the periwinkle paint. 

His hand, unsteady and trembling, unraveled from it’s fist. He shuddered, seeing the purple already beginning to blossom across the bone. 

He hissed in pain as he ran his finger over it, the metal cold and unyielding to his harmed flesh. 

Swallowing back a sob, he settled against the cabinets beneath the sink with his head in his hands. 

They called her a martyr. They called her a victim. They called her an angel. 

Those had been the words passed between the news anchors lips. 

It was the anniversary of her death. The world mourned her, as if they had all even loved her in the first place. A choir sang outside the ruins of Hope’s Peak, holding candles, tears in her eyes. 

She was beautiful even in death. 

But they hadn’t known her, not like Komaeda did. He supposed it was futile to get possessive over the memory of a dead girl, but he still was. She was beloved by all, this shining pillar of hope, who had fought against Junko until her very last breath. 

To Komaeda, she was the quiet girl with her head buried into the light of her handheld game’s screen. She was dry humor, class time naps, and compassion. 

And the world mourned her like they had ever seen that. 

The anger within him flared again, and he balled his fist. His blood was running glossy between his fingers, and he thought about landing another punch. However, his arm felt heavy and weak, and instead he simply sunk back down. 

Nobody missed her like he and his friends did. They pretended to, perhaps to spite the ones that were still alive, but it was all false. 

He sniffled and closed his eyes, wondering if the rest of the group felt the way he did. It was likely, of course. Anger wasn’t an uncommon emotion after their experiences. 

He sat there quietly, letting the tears roll down his cheeks. He didn’t realize how much time had passed until there was a gentle knock at the bathroom door. He was too tired to respond, so he simply sniffled again.

The door opened slowly, and Komaeda looked up at Hinata. He must have just gotten home from work, his tie already loosened at his neck. His eyes scanned across Komaeda’s bloody knuckles, to the dented wall with the smear, and back again. 

He sighed, and extended his hand to help him up. Gratefully, Komaeda took it. 


	6. we will not remain unscathed

Hinata’s hair was tickling the edge of Komaeda’s jaw, and his arm was slowly falling numb beneath his weight. However, this was the first time they’d had sex since leaving the island and Komaeda could not bear to break the soft spell that had fallen over the two of them. 

Hinata’s skin was pressed against Komaeda’s, still warm and flushed. His head rested peacefully on Komaeda’s chest as he ran his fingers across the jutted mountains of his ribs, his breathing slowing over time in the silence. 

Komaeda closed his eyes for a selfish moment as he allowed himself to revel in the peace of having Hinata so close. He was afraid to talk, that he would say something wrong and Hinata would roll his eyes and decide it was time to go home like he usually did when he deemed Komaeda had been enough for the evening. So he was quiet. 

Of course, he had much to say. He wanted to tell Hinata that looked absolutely magnificent when he had lost all care and gave into pleasure. He wanted to tell Hinata that he wanted him like this forever, that he wanted to feel how warm his skin could be along the sharp edges of his own body. He wanted to tell Hinata that he made him feel so alive in a world that continuously tried to destroy him. 

He also wanted to tell him that he loved him. Though, he was not sure that was allowed, so it was another bit that he kept for himself. A quiet, selfish thought, that he could ever be good enough to love Hinata Hajime, the shining star of perfection in their decrepit world. 

He exhaled a long sigh, though Hinata didn’t comment. He wondered what he could possibly thinking about. Perhaps he was ruminating over how disgusted he was, lying here like this with him, or perhaps he was… enjoying himself. What an indulgent thought, that maybe Hinata could possibly find it pleasing to be in his presence--

_Wait. No._

Hinata’s had was moving, down across his bicep, which wasn’t much of a bicep at all and more of a sad, bony excuse for one. Komaeda thought that his body looked like less of a body and more of a hastily-done art project that vaguely resembled a person, something like the way children find faces in the clouds. Though none of his mattered to Hinata as his fingertips drifted downward, to where his forearm met it’s early end.

Komaeda swallowed hard. Hinata had never acknowledged his deformity. His heart raced as his fingers ran over the jagged scar there, the hesitant stitching job that Tsumiki had done. He was still waiting on the prosthetic, he wanted to tell him. I won’t look like this, monstrous like this, forever. 

With care, Hinata brought his forearm up to his face, inspecting the damage closer. 

Komaeda clenched his eyes shut tight. 

Then, softly, he pressed his lips to it.

Komaeda stopped breathing. 

Hinata placed his arm back down where it had been, and nestled closer, relaxing with a sigh. The feeling of his lips lingered on Komaeda’s skin. 

Suddenly, with a smile, he did not feel so terribly about his arm anymore. After all, if Hinata didn't mind it, then that was all that mattered. And for the first time ever, he did not wonder if Hinata was thinking about how vile he was. He relaxed as Hinata did, and allowed himself to be selfish-- if only for a bit-- and feel, perhaps, a little loved. 


	7. we deduce backward into first causes

The mass of monitors and wires and metal makes impatient beeping noises, beckoning. A distant, artificial part of Hinata’s mind understands them to their fullest extent without even trying. After waking up, he’s learned some things about the value of malleability, as much pointless as it may seem. He sits at Komaeda’s bedside, forehead resting on folded hands, a picture of exhaustion. Hinata doesn’t remember the last time he wasn’t exhausted.  
Komaeda’s breathing comes in even waves, fogging up the transparent, plastic mask that’s gently ushering something into his lungs to keep him beneath the surface of consciousness. Hinata had argued for this, shoulders sagging and eyes pleadingly tired, with some bare-faced doctor he didn’t know about his post-operational care.  
He had tried to convince Hinata that the sooner they woke him, the sooner they could see the incredibly innovative prosthetic in action. He told him that it wasn’t every day they got to use the invention of an ultimate mechanic in the operating theatre, and the whole hospital’s staff was eager to see the outcome of their work.  
Hinata, with all the evenness of tone that he could muster, informed him that he would be taking over as Komaeda Nagito’s primary physician from now until he was discharged from the hospital, as he was more than certain his newfound medical qualifications could laugh in the face of whatever this wide-eyed man knew. If he had a problem with that, he was encouraged to address his complaints to the chief of surgery at this hospital. Asunama Inoue had been wonderful in that position, and Hinata was quite grateful that her death during The Tragedy left no one for this poor excuse of a healthcare professional to go to.  
He turned and walked away, leaving the doctor sputtering in his wake about how he wasn’t cleared by a medical board to be a practicioner. Hinata could only laugh as he made his way back to Komaeda’s room.  
He was tired of people being hurt so they could be used as a doctor’s spectacle.  
Now, he looked up from his lap and at Komaeda’s peaceful face. Every once in awhile, his eyes or lips would twitch-- no sedation is without imperfection-- under the weight of his own drug-induced slumber. Hinata wondered if he was dreaming. It was probably rude of him to just stare, but that was okay. Komaeda wasn’t awake to timidly blush and chastise Hinata for his gaze like he always did, embarrassed even though Hinata couldn’t imagine what of. All that would have to wait. For now, Komaeda would kept under, while his nerves healed and solidified to Kazuichi’s work, so he’d never have to know the worst of the pain.  
Komaeda’s brow furrowed for a millisecond, another involuntary movement; his eyes were closed and searching frantically before going still again. A smile was tugging at the edges of his lips for a few wonderful, fleeting moments, before that was gone too.  
Hinata sincerely hoped it was a nice dream, leaning back in his chair to catch some sleep himself.


End file.
